


Fever Dream

by Meeralith



Series: ALT Series Prequels [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Amnesia, Captive Todd, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Wraith Feeding, Wraith Hunger, Wraith smooches, drug induced amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 04:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14348319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meeralith/pseuds/Meeralith
Summary: "For a Wraith, hunger burns like fire."Prequel to the "All Living Things" series, Todd/Guide-centric.





	Fever Dream

When he sees her for the first time, she's barely conscious.

Her body rests on a metal table, strapped down, but she does not struggle against her bonds. There's a reaction, when he's shoved into the room, and the metal glove around his feeding hand is removed. The sharp sound must have drawn her attention, because she moves her head to face him.

Her eyes are glassy, lack focus. He isn't even sure if she sees him, or sees through him. It matters not. He's brought to the table, and while the question of who this woman is, and what the Genii are doing to her is present in the back of his mind, he cannot let that stop him.

The hunger burns in his veins, every fiber of his cramped muscles. He needs to feed, not just because of the pain, no. He knows, if he refuses this, he will die within days. His hand shakes, when he raises it. No time for hesitation, for curiosity.

His hand slams on her exposed chest, and a ripple goes through the woman's form. Her expression doesn't change, her empty eyes simply start welling up with tears. She lies there, like a toy, a doll, motionless and spent.  
He grits his teeth, trying to siphon as much life from her as he can, feeling his captors' watchful gazes on his back, well aware that they'll stop him soon. They approach, he can hear their footsteps, and his claws set on the woman's skin.

More.

Sharp pain surges through him, and his connection to her is forcefully cut, the stun having him convulse. He's taken again, the metal glove mercilessly enclosing his hand. He snarls, but he knows, resistance is futile.  
One last glance to the woman.

She's still as he left her, unmoving, unexpressive.  
But there's no trace of aging in her reddened face.

 

*

Days and weeks go by, in his familiar agony, as the few years he took from the woman fade away.  
He's in the very back of his cell, hidden by shadow, half lying down.

Conserving energy, trying to stay alive for as long as possible. Survival.  
His senses are dulled in his trance, his eyes closed as the pain overshadows every thought. He doesn't hear the men approach, and only comes alive when he hears a key turn in his cell's lock.

There she is again, dressed in a knee-long surgical gown, hair as filthy as his own. She's on her feet, being crudely dragged along by Kolya's soldiers. When the door opens, they give her a shove, and she stumbles forward, falling to her knees inside his cell.

One of the men gives him a disgusted look, as he locks the cell back up, and pauses. Then, he throws something in through the bars.

He struggles to recognize what it is, his vision still blurry, but then, he sees. It's a key, just one, removed from its ring, just a few inches away from him.

The woman tries to get back up, but her knees give out under her weight. She likely only managed to stay upright, because she was being held.  
She reaches out, and pushes the key closer to him. Her lips tremble, but she doesn't speak.

He leans forward, and takes the key, examining for a moment. It's small, too small for the cell. But just the right size for...  
A new wave of hunger washes over him, as he understands. 

It takes him several tries to get the key into the lock at his glove and turn it, but when he does, he cannot suppress a hungry snarl.  
Whoever this woman is, whatever saved her from suffering the full effects of being fed on before, he resigns to the fact that he'll never find out.  
There is no one here to stop him, the soldiers have left. Left her alone, locked up with a starving Wraith.

She moves, and he wonders if she'll try to fight, considering her an actual threat, because of his weakened state, but she proves his concerns wrong. Instead of away from him, she moves toward him, crawling on all fours.  
Her hand reaches up, and pulls her gown further down, exposing her collar bone to him.

He doesn't have the mental capacity left to wonder why.

Again, his hand slams on her chest, this time, hers locks around his wrist. His pain flares up like a stoked flame when he begins feeding, the drain never being fast enough. His claws dig into her soft, supple skin, and there's not an ounce of resistance.  
No, it feels like her life is actively flowing into him, eager to nourish him, and there is no end to it. It feels off, wrong.  
Her years feel thicker, in a way, heavier, and he doesn't sense weakness in her, no progressive decline as he takes from her.

Instead, she seems to come more and more alive under his palm, she moves herself into a more upright position, and grabs him by his hair.  
His mind begins to ask questions again, his pain fading, as she yanks him closer to herself. Yet, he doesn't have much time to be confused about her odd behavior, when her lips press against his.

The sudden contact sends a jolt through his nerves, causing him to react immediately. He growls, grabs her by the collar with his free hand, and pulls her closer. There's heat in her, and something breaks within him.  
How long has he been here? Decades? Centuries? Years blur into one another, through the pain and ridicule. He felt cold, he felt forsaken.  
How long since someone has touched him without the intent to cause harm? Too long.

He returns the kiss, her lips part willingly for him, and part of him wonders how a human woman can taste like soot and cinders. The hand, still tangled in his hair, tenses, and she presses herself against him, his arm folding between their bodies.  
She breaks from the kiss, and sobs wetly, letting her head sink against his shoulder. He hums softly, as her pull on his hair lessens. 

When she looks up to face him, she looks a lot better. The glassy, feverish shimmer in her eyes is gone, the sickly red splotches on her skin have paled. He breathes heavily. She needs this as much as he does.

His off hand moves to caress her cheeks, her skin feeling less like fire, as her body temperature normalizes. The life siphon has long subsided, but his hand remains pressed against her, keeping the connection upright. And she looks at him, right into his eyes.

“What are you?” he asks her, his voice raspy and hoarse.  
“I don't know.” she responds, whispering, as if she feared being listened in on.  
“Who are you?” he specifies his question.  
“I don't know.” she repeats, now shaky again. “I just know the pain.”

He retracts his hand, and shows her the blood on his palm.  
“You should not have survived this. I did not hold back.” he tells her, and she shakes her head.  
“It doesn't hurt.” she reveals. “The fever hurts.”  
“Your heat...” he muses, theorizing silently. Life force excess, externalizing itself as heat? A disease, a mutation?  
His off hand moves to her back, and he pulls her into his arms. She's still warm, but on a more reasonable level.

It feels good.  
A huff escapes his lungs, as he attempts not to let himself show weakness, not to show that he craved affection as much as nourishment.  
She gave him both.

His embrace loosens, when the cell is opened again. A defiant glare is in the woman's eyes, when she stands up, stepping in front of him almost protectively.  
Too many guns aimed at them both. He resigns to his pain and loneliness again, as she is escorted out, and away from him.

 

*

They are using her to keep him alive, he realizes, when he sees them approach with the woman again, just when his hunger has reached critical levels.  
She stumbles, and nearly falls a few times on her way to the cell, sinks to the ground when she's pushed in again, just like before.

This time, she acts different.  
Not at all, that is.  
She sits there, on her knees before him, as he unlocks his glove and approaches. Her glance is empty, and fails to meet his, when his off hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

Like a doll, like a toy, just like before.

He experimentally, lets his feeding hand trail gently along her cheek, but she hardly reacts. Wondering, if she even remembers him, he sets him feeding hand down on her chest, almost gently, and connects to her.

No cry of pain, no struggle. She just sits there, and lets him take what he needs.  
Feeling her heat subside slowly, as he drains her life, he holds eye contact, upper lip pulled back in a silent snarl.

She looks right through him.  
His sensory pits flare, and he detects traces of heavy medication in her, sedatives, narcotics. The Genii think they need to make her docile for this, misinterpreting their embrace as a struggle.  
A throaty growl escapes him, and he pulls her into his arms again, feeling her heart beat slowly under his palm.

 

*

It's been like this for years, until his hunger rises one day, but no soldiers bring the woman to him.

He feels cold, even with the fire in his veins, and leans against the wall. It's been too long. She's not coming back.  
Have they killed her, he wonders, have they decided that he's not worth this resource anymore? How do they exploit this woman now, how do they capitalize on her pain?

He still remembers her voice the few words they were allowed to exchange.  
Lost, without memory, without identity. Helpless, like him.  
The despair in her, when she kissed him, the longing in her touch.

He hisses.

They took even this respite from him.

 

*

Years pass, and he escapes, together with this human man. He goes home, returns to his people, and regains his status, his pride.  
He bargains with these humans, focusing on bigger things, burying her deep in his mind, locked up safely behind many defenses.  
Not even his fellow Wraith catch on to these memories.

He tries to forget her, pronouncing her dead, murdered by the Genii, but she never leaves him. Her heat, flowing into him when he needed it most.

His life goes on.

He's by himself, in his Hive's holds, his palm wet with blood, when her familiar voice has him spinning around on his heel.

“I remember you.” she says, pointing at the starburst tattoo around his eye, through the bars of her cell. “I remember this.”

He steps toward her, warmth spreading in his mind again.  
“You remember me?” he asks, his voice rusty from months of telepathic communication.  
“This pattern. I dreamed of it. Of you.” she says, her voice sounding awestruck. “Your hand on my chest. The heat subsiding. It was you, was it not? Back in these dark cells.”

“Where have you gone?” he asks, sounding more accusing than he intends to.  
“I don't know.” she responds, sounding earnest. “They took me away. My friends found me, burned the bunker out. I was looking for you, but when I found your cell, it was empty.”

He opens the cell, and lets her out. She looks better, dressed in cloths and leathers, her hair straight and tied into a ponytail. No feverish redness, no glassy eyes. 

“Do you remember” he asks, “who you are?”

She's stepped close, and bats her eyes.  
“They told me, my name was Erinya.” she says. “But I don't remember it.”  
“How did you get here?” he continues, his hands flexing idly by his side.

“I tried to find you.” she says, sounding somewhat sheepish. “I cycled through many worlds, known as Wraith feeding grounds. I let myself be captured many times. But now, I found you.”  
“You found me.” he confirms. “Now that you have, what do you want to do?”

She angles her head.  
“I want to help you.” she admits. “You saved me. I owe you.”  
“I saved you?” he parrots, surprise shifting his voice a few octaves higher.

“You took the fire away.” she simply responds.


End file.
